Paris, France
April 2005
"This seems a bit tight, I think," my father said as he stood in the middle of the apartment and did a slow sweep of it. "What do you think, Stellan?"
My brother put down the pair of boxes he'd moved from the hall outside to the small pile starting to build in one corner of the living room. He straightened up and surveyed the space, sending me an amused smile.
"This place can house a family of at least four people. I don't think it's tight at all," he said and I just laughed and went to slip an arm around Dad.
"Stellan's right, you know?" I said, smiling up at the high ceilings and the large windows that looked out to the the heart of Paris. My new apartment was in one of the many classic Haussman buildings that dominated the 7th Arrondissement and offered the quintessential romantic view of modern Paris—the Eiffel Tower and Seine River outlined in the distance through your window, the tree-lined cobbled streets, the high-walled gardens and endless rows of shops. "This is more space than I really need. I don't think you have to worry about me."
Dad glanced down at me with a soft grin. "But where will Stellan and I stay when we come visit? We'll be here at least once a month."
I raised my brows. "No, you won't. And even if you did, there's a spare bedroom."
"And there might be an art gallery that he's buying in the Latin Quarter, just along the Sorbonne, so he has an excuse to regularly visit," Stellan said, earning a glare from Dad.
"It's a small investment," Dad defended without much conviction.
I really shouldn't be surprised. Despite running the large international cruise chain our family has owned for a few generations now, my father dabbled in a several small ventures, some of which conveniently placed him in cities where I lived in the couple times I had to live away from home. We already had a house in New York but he bought an old building in the Meatpacking district to develop into rental office space. Now an art gallery in Paris.
I love my Dad and his overprotectiveness might smother some people but I understood it about him. We'd lost important people we loved in our family too soon—my Mom, Gabriella—the woman Dad had fallen in love with after he and my mother grew apart—and Cassandra, the daughter they had together who is mine and Stellan's baby sister. That taught Dad to hang on tight to me and my brother as much as he could.
"You know you're going to have to let me go a little bit, Dad, don't you?" I asked him softly. "I'm all grown up now."
Dad swallowed hard, his eyes wistful. "I know you are, sweetie. I'm trying, alright?"
I almost blurted out that I was more grown up than he thought but I bit my tongue. Getting married to the wrong man was not a sign of being a grown up. In fact, that proved the opposite.
"Aren't you going to be a little sad here?" Dad asked.
I rolled my eyes. "This is Paris, Dad. I'm sure I'll meet lots of interesting people and have a ton of things to do."
"But your friends won't be close," he added. "How about Oliver? How often is he going to visit?"
I exchanged a quick glance with my brother before I moved away from Dad in the pretense of picking through a box I'd opened earlier.
I didn't tell Dad about my move to Paris until a week after our runway show finished. At that point, I'd already started my paperwork. I told him two days before I was set to fly to Paris to sign my final paperwork and hunt for an apartment near Casa Asari. He barely had time to recover before he joined me on my trip and helped me get set up. We then flew back to New York, arranged to have my stuff moved out of both of my rentals there and packed me up for Paris. There had been no time to meet up and tell other people or even have the little 'So-Long' party Dad wanted to throw for me. It was convenient because it prevented me from having a chance to talk about Oliver. Dad wasn't aware he and I were no longer talking. As relieved as I was not to have to figure out how to tell him without giving the dirty truth away, I knew time was going to run out eventually.
"I think Oliver's going to be too busy with his company to worry about me," I said lightly. "And the truth is, I'll be so busy here too. I still have a lot to prove if I want to stay here and make a name for myself. I'll have to meet a lot of new people, build new connections, get involved in different projects."
There was just silence long after my voice trailed off.
I looked up and saw Dad frowning at me in confusion. Stellan, who was standing farther back with his arms crossed over his chest, just gave me an 'Are you seriously not going to tell him?' look.
There is too much to tell that I can't start. Not if I don't want to permanently damage your friendship with Oliver.
This was more than just what Oliver had done to me. Oliver had other secrets that, in his own words, one would pay a fortune to never see the light of day.
I took a deep breath and faced Dad. "I think we can all agree that it'll be healthier for me to spend time with other people other than Oliver. I'm not a kid anymore. If I want to meet a guy, possibly start a relationship, I can't have Oliver tagging along. No one's going to find it cute anymore."
The crease between Dad's brows deepened. "I thought the reason you and Oliver were inseparable was because you weren't interested in meeting another guy. That any relationship you'll have was going to be with him."
I felt the reminder cut deep because apparently, I wasn't alone in my delusions. Dad probably already named all his future grandchildren. But I only let out a shrill laugh because I was done breaking down. "Dad, please. I had a crush on Oliver for the longest time, sure, but it'll be silly of me to think that it'll actually mean anything in the future. The guy's a playboy. Even I'm not blind to that."
In the corner of my eye, I could see Stellan's jaw tense and I prayed hard that he wasn't going to give unsolicited brotherly opinion now.
"So you're done crushing on Oliver now, is what you're saying," Dad said, still sounding very uncertain. "But the question is, is he done with you?"
It wasn't a question I could properly answer.
Angry as I was for what I'd seen, for what he'd done, a part of me was torn after his confession. I wasn't oblivious to his mistakes but it was hard to be black and white about it when there was apparently so much gray in the life he's lived all this time—a stint in the shadows where every desperate man gave up parts of his soul little by little. I may have saved Oliver from jumping into his death the day we buried his family but I wasn't able to save him from the atrocities of a life ripped from its hinges all too soon.
In a strange and probably idiotic way, I felt like I failed him. But then a part of me rebelled at the idea that desperation led down only one path. Oliver had other avenues but probably none that granted him the leverage and the expediency he needed to get a grip on a life he felt was slipping from his hands since his family died.
His pride forced him to make choices that in the end shamed him all the same.
And I don't know if Oliver will ever forgive himself for it because in his chase for everything, he might have just lost all that's ever mattered to him.
And that's fucking tragic and I hate knowing it because I've been nothing but a constant riot of pain and panic since—wanting to hate him and wrap my arms around him at the same time until the demons go away and both of us come back out whole and still happy.
Because it's not just my heart in pieces, you know?
He broke me the same way he was broken when he told me the truth and I honestly can't tell whose blood was on whose hands anymore.
"I think Viv's right about Oliver being busy anyway," Stellan said, his voice prodding me back into reality where I realized I'd lapsed into silence after Dad's question. "He's got a lot on his plate right now."
Dad nodded thoughtfully. "Well, he did just win that Cranston deal and that's going to be a big acquisition for him. I think he's got a few people sitting up straighter and paying more attention now."
I wasn't sure how my face looked but I had no control over it all of a sudden. It just felt like an immoveable stone mask that couldn't muster any appropriate reaction as my insides went cold.
The Cranston deal.
Of course.
No surprise he'd won it.
It cost us our marriage, after all.
In fact, it was a deal we'd both be paying for our entire lives, with our soul and with what happiness we could've found if not for the price it asked.
I felt separated from my body as I observed it turning away and searching for an open window, the voices of both my father and brother warbling and fading into the vacuous silence as I stepped into the galley kitchen.
My hands pressed against the glass cooled slightly by the spring morning. My forehead followed, my eyes closing as I began to breathe deeply, willing my lungs to open and fill with air before I was suffocating from the pain.
Tears slipped down my cheeks as my breathing grew ragged and my hands curled into fists.
How many more of these moments would have to be stolen from every single day of my life? How long should I mourn the fleeting and the forever that Oliver and I found and lost in a matter of days? And how was I supposed to move on with both feet forward when each day it felt like I was just barely holding my head above water, kicking at the tides to stay afloat and hopefully survive?
"If this is how much you're hurting, then I think you're right in moving all the way out here."
My eyes snapped open to the sight of my brother standing by the kitchen doorway, scowling darkly. If Oliver had been within a hundred yards of us, nothing—not even Stellan's typically chill attitude about life—would've stopped my brother from pounding his nose in. And he didn't even know all of it yet.
"Where's Dad?" I asked as I frantically wiped the tear-streaks off my face. "I don't want him to see this. He'll think something's wrong."
"Something is wrong but I'm going to let you tell us when you're ready," Stellan said. "And Dad's on the phone. You have about five minutes to put yourself back together."
I sniffed through a smile. "You're not going to rat me out?"
Stellan shook his head as he walked over to me. "Do you know when was the last time I saw you cry, Viv?"
I shrugged and said nothing.
"When Mom died. You had just turned seven then. Whatever happened with you and Oliver is hurting you more than anything has in the last fourteen years. And I could almost kill him for it."
Which is why you can't ever know, Stellan. Because if you do, I'd lose both of you and I've already lost too much.
"It happens when a girl gets her heart broken, Stel, and since I've only ever given it to one boy so far, you've only seen me cry about it now," I said lightly, forcing a smile no matter how heavy the corners of my mouth felt. "But don't worry, I'll get some practice. Before you know it, it'll be my turn to break hearts."
"I think you've been doing that for quite some time now and you know it," Stellan said with a laugh before pulling me into a hug. "It'll be okay, sis. You'll meet someone who will love you like you deserve and make you happy. Someone who'll never make you cry like this."
I squeezed my eyes shut and hugged my brother back because even if I could only tell him a small piece of the truth, it still freed me a little from this suffering I could never tell anyone about.
"Stay here if it'll help you recover," Stellan mumbled as he let me soak up the front of his shirt with a fresh batch of tears. "Stay here if that's what it takes for you to be happy again."
Happy again.
I never heard a more desperate lie but it was one I'd live with for years to come.
***
Verneuil-sur-Avre, France
September 2005
I was cold—so cold.
My face felt like it was ten times its normal size that my eyes seemed to have been swallowed up in it. Despite having so much trouble, I managed to stretch them open and swift-moving silhouettes against the glaring light filled my vision.
They weren't listening to me.
They were busy talking to each other, their words sounding distant and warped to my ears.
I called out to them—at least I thought I did because while I could make out a raspy version of my voice, I couldn't feel my mouth move.
No one heard.
No one listened.
I shot an arm out to grab someone and my hand curled around a wrist.
That's when I saw the dried smears of blood on my pale skin.
"Where is he?"
My words were drowned out by more murmurs as two shadows loomed over me and made a fuss. I felt the rattle of moving wheels under me and the occasional bump over slightly uneven flooring.
I lifted my other arm to shove the silhouettes away but I couldn't.
It was strapped to something.
"Where is he?"
Finally, in the blur of black and white shapes, a familiar face focused.
"Where did they take him?" I demanded, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes, scalding my temples and soaking my hair. I lifted my head to try to sit up but pain slammed me from so many directions.
I gasped in short, sharp breaths, my eyes squeezing at the effort. "Where is he?"
"Vivienne, just..." the voice faltered and I could hear the quiver in it. "Just let them take care of you, okay?"
"Where is he?" I repeated in a blustery wail, my head whipping side to side. "Take me to him, please!"
Cold. So cold. And so empty.
Someone squeezed my hand almost painfully.
My heart seized.
My eyes snapped open.
I couldn't see a damn thing except for the blood streaked on my hand and the chaos of eclipsing light and dark moving shapes.
I knew the truth with cold certainty.
"He's gone, isn't he?" I choked, the sob drowning back the air I tried to gasp in. "Tell me!"
But I could no longer hear anything.
Just as I couldn't feel anything anymore.
***
Paris, France
October 2008-2011
"If my brother has the kind of friends yours has, I'd happily check up on him too."
I looked up from the tabloid article I was reading from my computer and guiltily smiled at Marg (for Margeaux) who had just walked past behind me with a small stack of invoices in her hand. With all the furniture and furnishings that just got delivered two weeks ago, the bills had started to roll in.
"I just wanted to see how his birthday was," I explained casually as I closed down the website that had pictures of the charity ball Stellan threw in place of his birthday party every year. "He managed to send me one picture of him and Dad but that's it."
And of course, I knew why he didn't send me some more with other people—especially those of him with his best friends. And while I was pretty sure I didn't want to see Oliver either, I couldn't resist. Maybe it was a reminder of one of the few good things that was preserved by my escape to Paris.
"I told you I was going to be fine here," Marg said as she settled back in her chair and downed the last of her wine. "You could've taken the week off and joined your family for Stellan's birthday."
I shook my head. "I wasn't going to just drop everything and leave you to sort it all out. Stellan knows that."
My brother had not only known that, he'd also very much wanted to help that he'd been willing to postpone the charity ball so he and Dad could come out here and help me out with the move. But as I've been stubbornly trying to do the past three years, I refused and told them that Marg and I would be fine. And yes, it was stressful—getting permits, meeting with vendors, suppliers, clients, doing a small press junket—but that had been pretty much mine and Marg's lives in the last six months that the final move hadn't been as daunting as it had first seemed.
Vienne Couture officially opened its doors late last week with a private party exclusive to no more than fifty guests, each handpicked for their social and style influence. The exclusivity was key to the image I wanted Vienne to have. We were a small fashion house of seven people who was going to ask for a fortune in exchange for one of my designs. The money I put into starting up this business was generous enough to keep us comfortable. We would've had more if I'd allowed Dad to pitch in but I was adamant not to get any more help from him. I cashed out one of the several investments Dad helped me open up more than ten years ago. A lot of it was money we inherited from Mom and the rest were exorbitant gifts from a father who could never seem to give us enough of the world. I put that money away and didn't think about it until more than a year ago when I decided that while I mostly enjoyed my time apprenticing at Casa Asari, I wasn't meant to work for someone. I had a healthy respect for Eva Proulx but we didn't always see eye to eye on things. Not only that, I couldn't shake off the feeling that a lot of people there thought my influential last name was what cut me a spot. They never called me a spoiled brat to my face but it hung in the air quite a bit especially when I'd taken a two-month leave just shortly after I'd started. I'd been ready to leave at that time, thinking that my priorities were going to change but when things didn't, I decided to stick it out. I needed a distraction at that point and anything was tolerable. I never bothered to change people's opinion when it mattered little to me but eventually, I admitted to myself that I had to get out and start fresh. So when my contract was on its last year, I cashed out a big chunk of change and talked Margeaux into coming with me to open my own fashion house.
She had been interning in the accounting department around the same time I started at Casa Asari and while I'd mostly kept people at arm's length, Marg wouldn't have any of it. She was a few inches shorter than me, often dressed in plain but sharply tailored clothes in dark solid colors that contrasted quite well with her riot of short blond curls. She was friendly to everyone but when she met me and I refused her polite invite to come along on a coffee run with her, she asked me flat out if it was because I thought she was beneath me or if I just didn't trust her not to have a secret agenda. Since she was the first person at work to have been straight up with me in the two months since I started there, I gave it right back and told her that I usually just couldn't be bothered to try to figure people out so I avoided them. She just laughed and rolled her eyes and grabbed me by the wrist and steered me toward the door, telling me that if that was how I planned to live my life, I came to the wrong city.
And she was right.
Over the years, after a rough start, life in Paris settled into a routine full of friends, food and fashion. To my relief, time eventually made it easier for me to lose myself in work, and all of the new people and experiences Paris had to offer. It also became a convenient excuse as to why I couldn't head back to Cobalt Bay as often as my family would like. When things slowed down, I found ways to push myself harder. And when I couldn't make myself any busier, I decided to open my own design label.
Because you can't suffer when you have no time for it.
"Well, it's almost midnight and I think we've both had enough of this day," Marg said as she stretched her arms over her head. "Go home and rest. And tomorrow's our first day off in a week. Make sure you don't actually work. Call your family or something. Or go out with that French count you met at the gallery."
I rolled my eyes even though I could feel the dull ache in my bones after hours of poring over paperwork. "If I'm actually taking a day off, I'm going to spend it sleeping, not flirting with a guy."
"As if flirting takes any work for you," Marg teased as she stood up to collect our empty wine glasses and the bottle we'd finished. "It still boggles my mind to this day how someone as gorgeous and confident as you managed to stay single—especially when you have half the men in Paris in love with you."
I looked away to hide my wince. Marg had become my best friend since my move to Paris. She'd seen me in my darkest when no one else had but she didn't know everything. And she never pushed. And I never gathered enough courage to admit the rest of the truth.
I'm strong, not brave. And there's a difference.
No one fully knew the chaos of my life in the last few years and I'd chosen to ignore it even knowing that doing so didn't actually make the truth go away.
"It's a choice, Marg, not a foregone conclusion that any attractive and confident woman should inevitably find herself in a relationship," I said and I instantly regretted my sharp tone. I knew my defenses were up and while my point was valid, I didn't have to make it so curtly. I sighed and turned to her to apologize but she was smiling at me as she approached. I should've remembered that nothing I said ever ruffled her feathers.
"I agree with you but I think it's not the real reason you've been single this whole time," she said, the almost lazy roll of her French accent lending the statement extra drama.
The real reason I'm not single is because I'm already NOT single.
For a second, I was scared that she'd discovered the truth, or that I'd said it out loud.
"There's obviously someone," she continued, her gaze so direct that I couldn't look away and shrug off her assumption. "And it's obviously complicated. You've been in a kind of pain no woman should ever suffer. I just don't know if you're waiting to be with him or waiting to finally forget him."
The breath that loosened from my chest was a little shaky because even though Marg hadn't figured out the whole truth, she summed up a good portion of it.
"What makes you say that?" came the lame question I couldn't stop from asking. The last thing I needed was to go down this path.
"It's been three years now, Vivienne " Marg said gently. "You live a charmed life on the outside but I've seen you with empty eyes, crumpled in a corner, lost to the world. You bounced back from that. And I had hoped that with your new life would come a new man who could actually make you happy this time. But your smile still goes brittle when you're around happy couples. You hold every interested man at arm's length. You tune out when people talk about their relationships. Why do you think I don't tell you much about Jude and I?"
Jude Lobowich was Marg's long-distance boyfriend who taught biophysics in a university in Switzerland. They would take turns seeing each other on holidays and long weekends and from the handful of times I've been around him, I could tell that he genuinely adored Marg.
Oliver adored you, too. It doesn't always mean anything.
I forced the thought out of my head because if anything, it just confirmed Marg's speculation on my attitude toward relationships. Not only did I have a hard time watching couples making happy memories, I couldn't help but question if everything was really as it seemed on the surface. It was all too easy for me to remember how mine and Oliver's perfect sandcastle crumbled. And how that devastation echoed farther into the future.
I opened my mouth to say something but Marg stopped me with a hand on my arm and an understanding, if a little pitying, smile. "Don't try to make up an answer, Vivienne. You don't have to tell me. I understand it's not easy for you to talk about it but I hope you can one day. It might make it easier for you. You can only hold so much inside."
I swallowed hard and forced a smile. "Thanks, Marg."
"Anytime you want to talk, just tell me. I'll bring the wine and we can talk for hours until you get it all out," she added with a little teasing, bumping me with her elbow. "Tonight though, I'd really like to go home and crawl into bed."
An hour later, I was home in my apartment, tired but nowhere near sleep. Between my hectic schedule that kept me out most of the time and the sweet, middle-aged cleaning lady who came by twice a week, the place was postcard-pretty. In the quiet of the night, even with the windows open to let a little bit of the street noise float in, it was palpably lonely. It didn't feel as empty as the chateau and I wondered if maybe the silence was just in my mind.
I hated the quiet.
I hated hearing his voice in my head when he would laugh or say my name.
I hated how much I missed him because outside of our disastrous marriage and the miserable years that followed, we had been good friends for so long who would talk about anything and everything. Having Marg around kept me from shrinking inward into myself but it wasn't the same as having Oliver in my life. And that was probably my greatest loss out of all of this mess.
No, it's not. You lost so much more, something more valuable.
I no longer seethed with anger. It had been the only thing in my veins in the first few months after I left until something bigger happened. Bigger than our mistakes. Bigger than the fragments of what we used to be.
And when that fell apart, I had been left with nothing. I couldn't feel enough to be angry or sad or bitter. Even when the emotions slowly returned, they all felt faded in comparison to what I'd been through. They all felt petty. And I realized that in the end, no matter how appalling Oliver's actions were, no matter how humiliated I was, we both lost out and there was nothing we could do to each other to make it worse.
Exhausted on all ends, I just let it go.
All my physical energy went to work and before long, I was pouring heart and soul into it that there wasn't much left for anything else. And while I was relieved not to feel too much of the pain anymore, I was beginning to wonder if I preferred it over feeling empty.
With a long sigh, I padded over to the bathroom and filled the tub. Even a nice, warm bath couldn't relax me. I had no interest in a book and I had enough wine. I was tired to the bone but every time I closed my eyes, I could only see Oliver's face as he stood with an arm around Stellan's shoulders as he, Max and Sebastian all grinned up at the camera.
Giving up the fight, I picked up my laptop that had been perched on one of my night stands and went back to the article I had been reading earlier. Deliberately avoiding news and updates about him had been easy enough to do in Paris. So the rare times that I would run into his photo or an article about him, I had difficulty tearing myself away.
I wasn't exactly looking to see if he was suffering as much as I was. Despite everything that happened, and maybe somehow because of it, I knew without a doubt just what I meant to Oliver. And now looking at it after the red had disappeared from my vision, I knew that my departure had devastated him. He could still smile for the cameras and those who didn't know him well wouldn't be able to tell the subtle strain in his eyes every time he did. These days, he looked hardened. It was a look I'd seen on him plenty of times but one that usually disappeared whenever I was with him, even years ago, long before he'd fallen in love with me.
My fingers traced his face on my screen before they seized up into a fist because all of a sudden, I wanted to pick up the phone and hear his voice. After three years, I wouldn't know what we'd say to each other even when we had a hundred things between us left unresolved.
Like your marriage.
When I moved to Paris, I was eager to forget that mistake and I did my best to ignore the technicalities except for the few forms here and there that asked for my marital status. At first, I told myself I didn't want to deal with it so soon after. Then in the aftermath of what followed, I cared even less, seeing it as minor detail in the grand scale of things. But it had been over three years now and neither one of us had budged. I deliberately left my recently acquired lawyer oblivious. Oliver never sent any divorce papers. And now I was even more confused than ever in this limbo we'd found ourselves in.
Last year, I decided that we'd both just wait until one of us needed to be free to marry someone else—an idea that abraded my insides like acid. I'd met a lot of men—many of them attractive and interesting—but I couldn't even say yes to a date. And to my surprise, I heard of no woman attached to Oliver. The gossip sites were always going on and on about the single status of my brother and his friends who were fondly nicknamed the Cobalt Bay Billionaires. They all jumped at a rumor or a sighting so if Oliver was involved with another woman, I would've heard it by now.
Did I feel somewhat comforted by that fact?
I wouldn't be a hypocrite and say I wasn't.
Did I know what that meant in the bigger picture?
Not really.
Another thing I didn't know was that my unraveling was going to start that night. The man I'd done my best to never think about for three years was suddenly all I could think of. The haphazard seal I had on the past broke and the what-ifs flooded in.
And so almost three years later, as I stood from a distance watching Marg exchange vows with the love of her life in the fairytale setting of an old chateau, I realized I was too tangled up in the past to chase the future. Each day was just me passing time, stuck in an absolute standstill.
Just because the world was in constant motion as it passed you didn't mean you were moving with it. And I was startled to realize how incredibly lonely that was.
So before logic could straighten me out, I found a number I'd been trying to delete in the last five years to no avail.
It was just one sentence, the first one I'd said to him since our last confrontation in New York.
I miss you.
I wanted to go back and delete it, not because I didn't mean it but because I did. The truth was always harder to say than the lie.
But it had been almost six years and perhaps, the truth had become easier on us both.
At least I thought so when I heard the soft ping of my phone and read two words I didn't realize could hold so much power over me.
Come home.
***
So, what do you guys think?
Inevitably, we had to fast forward to the future or we'd be here forever. LOL.
What happened in the intervening years will come to light in the later chapters so while I know it might seem quick, be assured that it's by no means resolved.
Hope you enjoyed!
XOXO,
Ninya
♪♪♪ Chapter Soundtrack: Wish That You Were Here by Florence + the Machine ♪♪♪
I've tried to leave it all behind me
But I woke up and there they were beside me
And I don't believe it but I guess it's true
Some feelings, they can travel too
Oh there it is again, sitting on my chest
Makes it hard to catch my breath
I scramble for the light to change
You're always on my mind
You're always on my mind
And I never minded being on my own
Then something broke in me and I wanted to go home
To be where you are
But even closer to you, you seem so very far
And now I'm reaching out with every note I sing
And I hope it gets to you on some pacific wind
Wraps itself around you and whispers in your ear
Tells you that I miss you and I wish that you were here
And if I stay home, I don't know
There'll be so much that I'll have to let go
You're disappearing all the time
But I still see you in the light
For you, the shadows fight
And it's beautiful but there's that tug in the sight
I must stop time traveling, you're always on my mind
You're always on my mind
You're always on my mind
And I never minded being on my own
Then something broke in me and I wanted to go home
To be where you are
But even closer to you, you seem so very far
And now I'm reaching out with every note I sing
And I hope it gets to you on some pacific wind
Wraps itself around you and whispers in your ear
Tells you that I miss you and I wish that you were here